The Marseilles Check Forger
by mf32
Summary: Bereft of Mr. Holmes, Miss Jane travels south for the winter and solves an intriguing case with the dapper French detective Eugene Valmont.
1. Chapter 1

The Marseilles Check Forger

by

mf32

Characters: John Watson (indirectly), Jane Watson, Eugene Valmont

Warnings: Some violence.

A/N: Sherlock Holmes and Eugene Valmont crossover. Narrated by Miss Jane Watson. Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Return. Crime/mystery. Many thanks to my wonderful husband and beta, Tim, for indulging my in my time-wasting hobby.  
>Please read and review! Thank you!<p>

Disclaimer: Freely adapted from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories, The Triumphs of Eugene Valmont by Robert Barr, and from "The Woman in the Case" by Arthur C. Train, in "True Stories of Crime From the District Attorney's Office" (retrieved from Project Gutenberg), all in the public domain.

Chapter 1

29 November, 1892 Marseilles, France

Dr. John Watson 221B Baker Street London, England

My Dearest Brother John,

No doubt I am writing to you from an unexpected locale. Since you went on your extended holiday, it has been quite desolate in London. Add to that the fact that I caught a case of the rheumatics in August that simply would not go away, and you have the reason why I am now writing to you from sunny Provence. I had been dragging myself, sallow and hollow-eyed, through my days, my face as grey as the cold granite buildings I passed. But I eventually realized that that is not the proper way to regain one's health. I plan to remain here until spring or until my "rheum" (as the French call it) goes away, whichever comes first.

Cassandra is with me - she mews her hello as I write. Even here, in this breezy and sun-washed (yet surprisingly arid) place, she has not lost her talent for sensing when something is wrong. Even here, I am eager to share with you that I have managed to get myself quite embroiled in the detection of a heinous crime.

It all began a few days after I arrived and rented out a little apartment in a neat pastel-painted pension (so charming, like living in a pink box of bonbons!).  
>It is ideally located, not too far from the sea for a nice stroll, but on the top floor, and a bit cramped with its sloping ceilings. (However, it is affordable, allowing me to stretch my savings through the winter.) Over my slender flower-filled windowsill I can see up and down the insanely narrow cobble-stoned street. When I look straight down toward the pavement, I am sure that I will pitch forward onto it.<p>

It was still early one morning when my usually-quiet Cassandra began daintily mewing from her new favorite perch on the window ledge. As she was behind the drawn curtains, I could not see her lovely dappled coat rippling in the morning sun, but I heard her soft, insistent meows and scratchings at the glass of the window. The first morning that she did this, I merely rolled over in bed, sneezed, and dropped back into oblivion. But on the second day, I rose, crossed in a bleary zig-zag to the window, opened the curtains and staggered back as the sunshine hit me full in the face. After adjusting to the light, I squinted out, trying to discern what had agitated my little seeress. As best I could figure out, Cassandra was watching a fair-haired young woman mail a letter at a corner post box. As we watched, there was a glint of copper wire, and the girl seemed to pull something out of the box - a few letters, I thought. Then she turned, hurriedly scuttled back to our building, and entered it. Cassandra looked at me intently, demanding that I understand the significance of what we had seen.

I sluggishly thought to myself that the young woman must be a neighbor. As a matter of fact, the fair-haired girl did look familiar. I vaguely remembered passing her and a young man a few times on the stairs, exchanging cordial greetings as we went by. They appeared to be a fashionable, well-off young couple. (But, just between us doctors, they had the somewhat anaemic look of morphine addicts. I suppose the bon vivants of France are not so very different from London society after all.)

Well, dear brother, you may remember how incensed I was at the theft of my own mail last summer (which I wrote about in my little story entitled The Criminal Face). Then you will understand my conviction that I could not just sit there and do nothing, no matter how simply awful I felt. So, the next day I rose at dawn with painful difficulty, dressed, and climbed down the steep staircases to the narrow stone street to walk up and down it, drawing my shawl about me closely, as the morning air is surprisingly nippy. (However, I do believe the sun and fresh air did me some good - I didn't sneeze once.)

After a little while, the young woman emerged from the front door and walked briskly to the post box. She was dressed in a fine dress of the latest style, although somewhat carelessly pulled together. Her blond coif was somewhat askew, as if she had not taken the time to smoothly adjust every curl, as she always had when I had seen her before. Approaching the box, she surreptitiously pulled out her copper wire and began digging for letters. I made to walk by, giving an amiable though stuffy-nosed "Bon matin!" as I approached. To my surprise, her usually pretty face was somewhat haggard in appearance, with tear-stained cheeks and a hardened expression, thin lips compressed and red-rimmed eyes glittering. She looked suspiciously at my somewhat shabby and sickly appearance, noting that I had noticed her wire, and said calculatedly, "Say, do you want to make some money?" (in French, of course).

I stopped, surprised, then recovered myself and said, why yes, I would. The young woman, whose name turned out to be Mabelle, quickly gathered her own composure and solicitously invited me up to her apartments. I followed her with a little trepidation, but feeling the blood beginning to flow just a little through my veins. (I wish you could have been there - the game was afoot once again!)

We entered a delightfully decorated salon, complete with lace curtains and pouffy striped, sateen-covered, Louis-the-something settee and chairs (those white-painted, curly chair legs always give a room a charmed, fairy-land feel!). Once we were comfortably sunk into those whimsical upholstered confections, Mabelle asked me if I had ever been involved in the "mail game". I started at the reference to it as a "game," realizing that both sides must take some enjoyment from the endless go-round of crime and detection. At a loss for a moment to know what she might mean, I hastily recalled and described the mail theft of which I had been a victim, describing it as if I had done the pilfering, emphasizing the cleverness of using a thimble surface to imitate the rasp used to stamp the wax seals of the mail packages. She smiled indulgently at me, no doubt concluding that I was a genuine, if rather inexperienced, petty thief.

Then my new acquaintance explained to me that her husband Jean had recently been arrested for forging checks. To my great surprise, Mabelle boldly and plainly told me that he was not the guilty party, but that she had done it! Jean had merely helped her by using the checks to purchase goods (which cost less than the amount of the large checks), and by getting a young accomplice to pick up the purchases and the change a few days later, when the check had cleared the bank. She coaxed me to join her in this endeavor, saying that together we could make enough money to get her husband out of jail, "and get you a new frock! Wouldn't you like that, dear?" It was easy to show agreement, as my sober English dresses do not show well in this cheery southern clime. I tried not to destroy the girl's impression that I was a frumpy, poor-ish, rather uneducated woman. In my current state of health and dress it was not too difficult.

Mabelle then explained their modus operandi in further detail. She would steal mail from a post box (as Cassandra and I had seen her do), and would look for a letter that contained a check written in payment of a bill. Once obtained, this draft would provide the name of the bank, the account number, and a signature.

The next step was to write to the bank, posing as the account-holder, saying that she had run out of checks, and would they please make her up a new checkbook. She would write the note in an approximation of the real account-holder's handwriting, reproducing it from the small handwriting sample she had (check and addressed envelope), and forging the victim's signature at the bottom. She then mailed this to the bank. Then her husband would find a willing young messenger to pick up the new checkbook a few days later. This errand also functioned as a little test of the cashier's watchfulness - if he believed the letter's forged signature, he would likely believe the signature appearing on a check, as well).

Mabelle and I were sitting leaning forward conspiratorially, she explaining with delighted animation and I sitting on the edge of my seat in rapt attention and no small amount of shock. How could these nice looking young people be so callously defrauding banks and bilking the purses of innocent strangers? But there was more; she continued her extraordinary narrative.

If that stage of the plan went well, their only serious concern from then on was to not overdraw the bank account. But it was not hard to find wealthy persons in this busy merchant port city, she smirked. Lastly, she said, she would forge a check, written out to a specific dealer of luxury goods (or sometimes to "cash"), for a large amount, which her husband would take to said establishment, and proceed to make a respectably large purchase, as I have already described. There was no risk to her husband, because the messengers they employed were usually just children, running an errand in exchange for a few bob. If the check did not clear, the young person knew nothing and could tell the police nothing.

Mabelle sat back on her smooth perch, an unfathomably satisfied smile on her face. She was too young to look so worldly, and to speak gaily of such sordid things. Surely there was something missing in her moral upbringing!.

I also sat back, exhausted by the revelations, and mulled over this clever scheme for a moment. Then it occurred to me to ask, "But how do you convince the store representatives that your messenger is truly from, er, 'you'?"

"Ah, well that," she replied, preening a bit, "is a new game. I invented it myself. So you want letters of identification? In different names and addresses? Very good. Buy a bundle of stamped envelopes and write your own name and address on them - in pencil. Send them to yourself, and when they arrive, rub off the pencilled address and address the legally cancelled envelope as you please - in ink!"

"Mabelle," I said truthfully, "I am amazed at your 'game.' How can you be so clever!"

She seemed so pleased and cheered by my admiration, that my new accomplice pulled out a few sheets of paper from a drawer and sat down at a enchanting rococo writing desk, made for a princess, to show me one more thing.

"Now," she said, "here is my regular handwriting." She signed a woman's name on the sheet (however, it was not her own name). "And this," she continued, "is the signature we used to fool the Marseilles National Bank - Miss Kauser's. And this," she added," adopting a stiff, shaky, hump-backed orthography, "is the signatue that put my poor husband into all this trouble, poor dear," and she inscribed upon the paper the name "E. Bierstadt."

"Goodness, Mabelle, you're a wonder! You do it so easily!" I murmered. She explained to me that she was a "free-hand" forger, who did not need to first trace the signature on the page - and that she had always had this ability . "Even the sisters in the convent noticed that I had a talent for drawing!" she exclaimed. Then she handed me the sheet of paper to throw in the waste bin and left the room for just a moment to get the tea, which was beginning to whistle. I quickly grabbed another piece of paper from the desktop, crumpled it up, and threw it away, carefully folding the sample sheet and placing it into my little purse.

By this time, I was truly drained and gratefully accepted the tea and strange, hard little "biscotti" that Mabelle offered me. We chatted amiably about this and that, both explaining our reasons for being in Marseilles (hers: "the pickings are just so good!"). Then she suggested that we meet for lunch at a nice cafe on the Bourse (the main shopping street of the city, and quite a fashionable spot for wealthy visitors), once I had had a chance to go home and make myself a bit more presentable. I cringed, but took the implied criticism in the genial spirit in which it was intended.

Back in my sunnier but shabbier little apartment, I fed Cassandra, opened the rooftop window for her to sun herself on our little patio, and ate a little myself of my health-restoring regimen. (It features honey, nuts, and apple cider vinegar; I have heard from old wives tales that this is a good cure. I thought I would try it experimentally, as mainstream medical wisdom has so far done nothing for me.) But for the moment, at least, odd foodstuffs and feverish excitement would have to see me through the day.

As you may imagine, dear brother, I was quite at a loss as to what to do, with neither our beloved Mr. Holmes nor the wiley but welcome Inspector Lestrade to appeal to for guidance. In desperation I went to the Marseilles Police Headquarters. I feared that this clever crime might be a bit beyond the abilities of the average gendarme, so I went to the city's main office - as close as I could get to Scotland Yard among this relaxed, easy-going populace.

As I entered the fairly imposing stone structure, with its arched doorway and semi-circular steps leading up to it, a pinnacle of justice, I hoped, I saw a tall, slim Frenchman, dressed in a natty linen suit, as if ready to promenade down the Marseilles equivalent of the Champs Elysees. He was rather harshly berating a couple of uniformed officers, loudly chastising them regarding their failure to apprehend some anarchist Felini, complaining that his Paris Surete would never have let him slip through their fingers.

Upon hearing the bell above the front door ring out my entrance, he turned abruptly, and was suddenly quite suave and elegant, his still-red face smiling congenially as he introduced himself as Inspector Eugene Valmont and asked me graciously how the police could be of service to me? The heady fragrance of his French cologne wafted through the air and I warmed to him immediately. But when I explained that I wanted to report a crime, he looked at me disparagingly and passed me off brusquely on a sergeant. These French manners!

He came back to listen intently, however, when I began to describe the check forging "game," and produced the page with the sample signatures. He sat down next to us and listened closely to my story, his sharp dark eyes showing that the dapper French detective force is not entirely without good sound reasoning ability. It turned out that there had been a number of check forging incidents reported lately - I remembered that Mabelle had bragged that she and her husband had done over a hundred of them.

After I had explained everything, including our upcoming al fresco luncheon, Inspector Valmont instructed me to meet my accomplice as planned. He would "discover" me on the street and arrest me as a small-time criminal who had not left town "as I told you to!" This would confirm my identity to Mabelle, and allow the police the chance to catch us in the act of perpetrating her next forgery.

This seemed like a nice plan to me, but imagine my surprise when, at the cafe's entrance, upon hearing Ins. Valmont arrest me, Mabelle chirped in brazenly, "Oh Monsieur l'Inspecteur, do come and have dinner with us first! Miss Watson has been very good to me, and she hasn't had anything to eat for ever so long, poor dear!" and looked at me sympathetically. Then imagine my absolute astonishment when he replied, "I don't mind if I do. I suppose I can put up with the company if the board is good!"

Then followed one of the strangest but most enjoyable outdoor meals I have ever had. I was entirely out-classed by these two fashionable "boulevardiers," both of them lively and vivacious and both dressed to a "T," but I tried to put a brave face on it and be a good and appreciative listener. Inspector Valmont told stories of his great cases in Paris, and even detailed to us his current search for political subversives on the run from his home city. Mabelle and his elegant and flirtatious Gallic repartee was charming to hear. (I secretly determined to do all that I could to improve my appearance and ease in society, once I have regained my health.)

Well, finally, our devil-may-care young companion began to feel a little uneasy and jittery. Just before we received our little frou-frou desserts, the detective stepped away for a moment and Mabelle cast a worried look my way, incomprehensibly slipping a roll of banknotes under the table to me, saying, "Keep these for me, will you? I've got to go -". But just as she was getting up to flee, her face drawn with fear, Ins. Valmont pounced upon her, having seen our little exchange. He plucked the roll of bills from my hand and arrested us both, on suspicion of what exactly, he didn't say. (French justice works a little bit differently from the English, it seems!) Mabelle turned white and uttered a little scream; I thought she would faint. But then she recovered her composure and said, with a sobriety and dignity quite unsuited to her age, "I take my hat off to the Marseilles police." I was surprised not only by her manner, but by the fact that she had just admitted her guilt!

Well, to make a long story somewhat shorter, Ins. Valmont marched us both off to Police Headquarters, where we to be incarcerated, separately. I was then quietly released, and told NOT to leave town, as my testimony might be wanted in court.

Now totally spent, I went home to rest with Cassandra and to write to you, remaining, as always, your affectionate sister,

Jane

P.S. Will write again with results of the trial!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

25 December, 1892 Marseilles, France

Dr. John Watson 221B Baker Street London, England

Dearest Brother,

Happy Christmas! I hope this letter finds you well and frolicking in the snow somewhere.

For my part, I have been soaking up the sun here in southern France as best I can. I have not been entirely successful in returning my health to a robust state, so I shall probably continue my efforts for some time more.

It has been an eventful month since I wrote you last. I have quite decided that crime and detection is not a game, and is not really fun at all. The further chapters of this delightful little story of our wayward check forger are not at all like the history's beginning.

As you no doubt expected, Mabelle's check-forging case went to trial. I was required to attend, having been a witness to much of what had transpired, although I tried to stay as inconspicuous as possible, not quite having the heart to face her. I needn't have worried for her, though. Mabelle in court was not at all different from Mabelle out of court. If possible, she was even more flippant and gay than before. She appeared dressed as if for a pleasant walk in the park - in a pretty sky blue dress, picture hat, and white gloves. She was cheerful with the police, with the matron who escorted her, and especially with the press, enjoying her newfound notoriety.

She passed much of her time - while the court was engaged in serious deliberations - freely giving handwriting samples to all and sundry, cheekily signing her own name in a variety of styles! She also created caricatures of various notable persons in the courtroom, som of which were passed surreptitiously around the room, occasioning muffled chuckles as they went by. Even His Honor the Judge smiled indulgently when he saw a comical image of himself. Some of these irreverent creations found their way into the local newspapers - what a surreal country! The prosecution asked for "Contempt of Court," but the amused Judge merely waved his hand for the proceedings to continue.

(Even I couldn't help smiling a little, as a particuarly uproarious burst of laughter sounded right in the middle of my testimony. Sadly, my smile contradicted my words; I don't think my testimony was taken seriously after that.)

Not everyone in the room was so jolly, however. Mabelle's second to last victim, a Miss Alice Kauser, was present. (Mabelle had also scrawled her name on the sample sheet she had created for me.) She looked sincerely traumatized. And seated somberly beside her was the most recent mark, Mr. E. Bierstadt. He is a most proper gentleman, moustached and with a thick head of greying hair, attired in a tweed jacket - obviously from a more northerly clime. The two of them attended court every day, sober and impassive, insensitive to the hilarity around them.

Mabelle was formally accused of forging the first name on the sample sheet. This was the forgery that had seen her husband convicted. The question put before the court was this: had SHE really done it?

The case against Mabelle was so compelling that the prosecution had thought it would be easy to win. The total of their supporting materials listed:

- the sample sheet which I had seen created

- the cancelled forged check in Mr. Bierstadt's name (which had landed Mabelle's husband in prison)

- a practice sheet of signatures of Miss Kauser's name

- remnants of many burnt blank checkbooks, bearing several bank account numbers

- Inspector Valmont's testimony (he claimed to have himself found the sample sheet in the trash bin, which is where they would have found it)

- my own testimony as to how Mabelle had described their "game"

- (not to mention her own confession).

When it came her turn to testify, Mabelle waltzed into the witness box and cheerfully and freely gave a complete confession, as if expecting merely a slap on the wrist from the nuns at her old convent. Those assembled gasped in shock when to the prosecuting attorney's question, "Did you forge this check?" she answered blythly, "Yes, I did, sir." (Her own counsel, however, had already entered a plea of insanity on her behalf, having probably been warned by Mabelle herself of what she intended to do on the stand.)

As the trial went on, it began to look like the accused was merely a charming young innocent who was being persecuted for some unfathomable reason by the police. This view was further supported by the fact that Inspector Valmont was a Parisian (Southerners dislike them. The south of France was once a separate realm, the Kingdom of Provence, and they have never acclimated to northern rule.)

Toward the end of the trial, when all evidence had been presented, the prosecuting attorney, in desperation, requested to bring Mabelle's husband into the courtroom and have him forge Mr. Bierstadt's signature, to show that he could not possibly have fooled the bank. From my seat not far away, I heard Mabelle whisper to her counsel, "For God's sake, don't let him do it!" The defending attorney promptly rose and entered an objection, saying that this was not the husband's trial. Unfortunately, His Honor agreed, and the subject was dropped.

Well, after a moderate period of deliberation, the jury returned with their verdict. They didn't believe that Mabelle had created the sample or practice sheets. They didn't believe that she had burnt the blank checks. The didn't believe Inspector Valmont's testimony; and they didn't accept my poor telling of the story either. They concluded that this helpless young wife had been deceived by her nefarious husband, and then framed inexplicably by the police. They declared her completely innocent and sent her home.

Her husband, however, was taken off to jail, to rot for a very long time. But noone seemed aware of that. Brother, you should have seen the crowds following the vindicated plaintiff home, with Inspector Valmont beet red and fuming as they passed by. Onlookers jeered at him. I felt pity for him; he hates to be mocked. He explained to me once as we were preparing for the trial that "mockery kills in Paris." I could see that he was determined not to let his career die from the people's verbal jabs.

I eventually went home as well, by a circuitous route and the back entrance, not wanting to meet with the deceitful heroine of the moment. Now I have no doubt that her husband was a part of this awful scheme - she had told me so herself - but it was a pity to see him take all of the blame, and for the real perpetrator of these crimes to go free (to continue as before, with a new fool to help her, no doubt).

Well, that's all for now. Perhaps my next letter will contain better news.

Love and again, happy holidays,

Jane

30 January, 1893 Marseilles, France

Dr. John Watson 221B Baker Street London, England

My Dear Brother John,

I have had the most eventful time since I wrote you last. I scarcely know how to describe it; it has been a frightful time.

I went back to my little pension from our forger friend's trial, dejected and deflated, and my health promptly took a turn for the worse. I had a raging fever for a few days and feared that I might die. I even left the window open so that my poor Cassandra might escape and find food if I did pass away in my bed. Hardly a soul in that town knew me, and I hazily realized that my absence would not be noticed for many days.

In my wretched state, I had a macabre dream. In it, I was walking home alone at night to my little garret. It was raining and I had my shawl clutched about me miserably, as I trod uphill along the dank cobbled pavement. Suddenly, Mabelle came out of the shadows from behind me, murmering sweetly yet ominously how glad she was to see me. Then I felt my head turn sharply and a warmth begin all across the front of my neck. I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew, I was hovering, looking down at my blood running down the street to the sea. I saw it spread and gracefully curl as it sank in the dark waters of the bay. I had a sense of time passing - I don't know how much. Then I looked up, and it seemed to me that I saw a dark-haired youth's face in the sky, smiling down contentedly at me.

Eventually, I found my dream self walking, soaking wet, out of the sea and back onto the shore. I sat clumsily down on the rough pebbled beach, hugging my knees and wet skirts to me, and stayed there until I had the strength to trudge home. Quelle reve, eh?

Thank goodness my fever finally broke, and I started to eat a little. It had been I don't know how many days. Poor Cassandra's water bowl had dried up - she had been lapping water out of the rain barrel on the roof, delicately balancing on its edge.

I have lost quite a bit of weight. The skin on my neck even sags a bit, creating a wrinkle that looks like a scar from ear to ear. I have begun to get about a bit once again, and yesterday, met a gendarme acquaintance from the trial as I was purchasing a few things. After expressing shock at my emaciated appearance, he informed me that Inspector Valmont has vowed to revive Mabelle's forgery case and see justice done. He hinted (with a slow Provencal wink that creased his sun-  
>roughened, tanned skin) that some new evidence was being sought. I wanly smiled and expressed my admiration of their untiring efforts. I suppose only time will tell if they succeed.<p>

More to follow...

Your dutiful and recuperating, and always affectionate, sister,

Jane


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

28 February, 1893 Marseilles, France

Dr. John Watson 221B Baker Street London, England

Dear Brother,

I received your letter describing the incredible return of our dear friend Mr. Holmes from the dead! What truly good news! I wish I could be there to share in the happiness occasioned by that wonderful event. However, I do not think I will be returning to London any time soon.

I am finally on the mend from my long illness. My cough is almost dry. I still feel terribly weak, and strangely hollow, feeling an almost metallic echoing in my being. I keep feeling that I have forgotten something important. But the sun is shining, my dear Cassandra is nudging me to hurry up and write this letter, and there is much to do...

I wanted to narrate to you the final chapter of my long winter adventure. As you may remember, my last missive described our unsuccessful attempt to convict a young check forger of my acquaintance - Mabelle of the charmed life. She was enthusiastically cleared of the forging of a Miss A. Kauser's name on a bank draft in a trial straight from the southern French do indeed have a more relaxed and easygoing style in everything they do.

And do you remember that I wrote to you about how incensed the brusque yet dapper Inspector Valmont was, determined not to let this case ruin his reputation as one of the leading police detectives in the country? Well, it turned out that, in the weeks after the trial, he tracked down a young former accomplice of Mabelle and her husband, already incarcerated and ready to make a deal. He confessed to being their messenger on several occasions, and identified Mabelle as the forger. The persistent detective was going to use this person's testimony to open a case against Mabelle for forging the other name on that sample signature sheet that she had made for me (that of a Mr. E. Bierstadt).

Surprisingly, it turned out that I also came across some additional evidence. I was descending the little back stairway of my charming stucco pension (not so charming when you have to wheesingly climb several flights each day), when I glimpsed Mabelle mincing purposfully down her hallway toward me. I felt an unreasoning panic grip me, and I hurriedly pressed myself back against a shadowed wall of the landing above. Mabelle was looking her usual rosy self, but with a grimly determined expression on her young face. She carried a small bundle that crinkled suggestively. I saw ash smudges on the hand that carried it. I realized that she must be burning more evidence - some of it must have escaped the police search preceding the first trial.

Mabelle descended the back stairs to the exit and deposited the grimy little bundle in the trash bin in back. Then she turned and re-entered the building; I only just popped out of sight into a dark corner. She passed within inches of me on her way back up to her apartments. Wide-eyed and helpless, I stared out at the passing face, eyes cold and cruel within a rounded porcelain face, that was just beginning to show little "cracks" from too much good living.

After she had swept on, and I was breathing again, I crept down to the dust bin and gingerly picked the little packet out, smelling the ash, trying not to crinkle the fragile papers, for fear of crumbling some precious half-burnt piece of evidence.

I carried it gently back up to my apartments and carefully opened it. Thankfully, my Cassandra was out drowsily sunning herself on our little rooftop patio, her mottled gold and sable fur shining like the most regal of robes. Slowly, I began the delicate process of unpacking the contents of this rummaged treasure. Initially there wasn't much to be seen. But after digging with exquisite care through the ashes and burned bits of paper, I came across a half remaining sheet of paper with several recognizable signatures on it - it was a practice sheet for Mr. E. Bierstadt's check forgery!

I was as excitted as a recovering convalescent could be! I burst out in a fit of spasmodic coughing, and quickly staggered across the room to avoid disturbing the amazing evidence and its accompanying detritus. Then, with heart pounding and still breathing in gasps, I shakily slid the paper between two fresh sheets of vellum and inserted the whole dry "sandwich" between the pages of a book. This I carefully placed into my shopping purse and excitedly trod the cobbled streets to the Marseilles Police Headquarters.

Well, If I may preen a bit, my little evidence was enough to make Inspector Valmont's sharp, hard eyes light up with glee. His whole form sprang to life like a dancing flame, and he bounded across the room to shake hands all round, before he brusquely began ordering his sargeants about once again. The almost-ruined Inspector Valmont had hope once again.

Mabelle was again taken into custody, and held for a couple of weeks before the second trial began. On the day of the trial, the exterior of the courthouse was a crowded scene - with many mildly curious onlookers waiting for another show, and also not a few of Mabelle and her husband's society victims (more crimes had been attributed to the young forger), some even yelling and throwing tomatoes.

When she appeared in the courtroom, again perfectly attired in a pretty dress, but looking waxy and pale, presumably from being deprived of her morphine for a fortnight. Her gaity of manner also fell somewhat flat, seeming disingenuous and contrived this second time around.

Mabelle was formally charged with forging Mr. E. Bierstadt's signature on a check, and the trial was underway. This time, Mabelle's counsel did not plead insanity on her behalf. He put in a defence claiming that the girl's husband was the mastermind and forger.

In her testimony, she concurred and claimed a little sheepishly that she had tried to trick the detectives into thinking she was guilty, in order to get him off. She had then planned to establish her own innocence later (perhaps when her husband had fled the country). She even stated with a straight face that the sample sheet she had created for me had been mostly written by her husband, saying innocently that she had only added her name at the top. I gasped at her effrontery; I had seen her write the whole thing! The jury listened to her claims with mild sympathy, reacting to the be-ribboned picture hat more than the face beneath it.

The surly former accomplice gave his testimony - a sullen account of several banks and stores that he had visited on his employers' behalf as their young messenger. "And what has it got me?" he resentfully asked. The bored jury seemed to be unmoved by his unenthusiastic assertions and after-the-fact repentance.

During the proceedings, Mabelle tried to be cheerful and to draw caracatures of the assembled as before, but they were not much laughed at or published. Those attending began to sense that the tide was turning against the cleverly manipulative defendant.

Some of the evidence from the last trial was pulled out, notably the above-mentioned sample sheet, and a check forged in Mr. Bierstadt's name. The jury yawned.

Then Ins. Valmont dramatically brought forward the newly discovered signature practice sheet. He claimed that one of his officers had found it in the garbage bin, but when she saw it, Mabelle shot an angry, suspicious look at me, sitting in the back with other less directly involved parties. I cringed and shrank down into my bench seat. When questioned, she coolly claimed not to have seen this second practice sheet ever before. I rolled my eyes, impatience overcoming my fear.

The jury examined this, yet another, piece of handwriting, passing it carefully from juror to juror, encased safely in a glass box. Its members looked bored, irritated, and unconvinced. They had seen this before. Or so they thought. Ins. Valmont firmly called their attention to a single handwritten character, a capital letter "M" that was written OVER one of the practice signatures (as the different color of the high-quality opaque ink showed). Therefore, the detective explained to the surprised jurors, whoever wrote the superimposed character HAD to have seen what was already written on the sheet - he or she had written on top of it. The jury was beginning to look suspicious.

Then with a flourish, the Inspector called to the stand a handwriting expert, who said through his thick round spectacles that he had compared the letter "M" with the signatures that Mabelle had so jauntily distributed to the assembled just a few weeks before - and he had found it to be the same person's handwriting.

This proved beyond a doubt, Ins. Valmont triumpantly announced, that Mabelle HAD seen the second practice sheet before, and was aware of its contents (and, noone now doubted, was aware of their significance). There was silence in the courtroom as this realization sank in.

The defending attorney pleaded that Mabelle was just an innocent led astray, but to no avail, as the mood of the jury had changed from boredom to disappointment and irritation. Nobody likes to be lied to to their face.

Well, then dear brother, I am almost sorry to say that it was all over. The unconvincing evidence suddenly became conclusive, and a decision was quickly reached. Mabelle was convicted, but with a strong recommendation for mercy. (The jury's hearts had not entirely gone against her.) As of now, I believe the triumphant and crowing Ins. Valmont is overseeing her transport to a women's reformatory.

My God, brother, I am so tired! How do you do this so often?

I hope all continues to be well with you and dear Mr. Holmes.

Your devoted sister,

Jane

P.S. I almost forgot to mention in all the excitement - back in December, I attended a very interesting lecture at the venerable and ancient Universite d'Aix-  
>Marseille, which is not too far away. The topic was the good work of the International Committee of the Red Cross, a Swiss organization devoted to protecting the victims of armed conflicts around the world, assisting both soldiers and innocent civilians caught up in the crossfire.<p>

Dear brother, I am truly delighted to hear of Mr. Holmes once again taking up residence in his old Baker Street apartments, but since you have also moved into your old rooms, and are now no doubt once again hard at work in the solving of crimes, I feel that I would be a bit of a third wheel.

This said, I went to speak with the Red Cross lecturer about employment, as I am beginning to run out of funds from my long winter convalescence. He is a commanding, square-shouldered red-haired gentleman with bristly whiskers that seem to quiver with internal energy. He responded to my assertion that I am a doctor back in England by exclaiming, "I don't care what you are, you'll be a nurse with us!" I was shocked and chagrined, and was tempted to storm out, but after a moment of stunned silence, I accepted his implied offer. So now it's off to - where?

THE END


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